Cursed
by Kaoru Camui
Summary: This is about Kuja... and his shaded past. ^^ Warning: Incestual/dark/yaoish themes inside. Please don't read if you're disturbed by such stuff. Reviews much appreciated. :)


# Cursed

by Kaoru Camui

[kamimura_ukyo@yahoo.com.sg][1]

"Otousan… no…" 

A cursed whimper, the sacrilege of childish innocence.

"…Why? Ku-chan… are you afraid of me?" The strapping hulk of a man advanced upon the cowering child, taking in his quivering, fragile form, eyes blazing infernos of fiery, unrestrained lust and desire. 

He was so pretty, almost androgynous… a perfect, flawless masterpiece, seemingly having been whittled out of the purest marble by the adroit hands of a skilled carver, with silver-white hair that fell about his thin shoulders in a gauzy dreamlike mist and reflected the shine of the streams of moonlight which cleansed the earth. Long, dark eyelashes framed a pair of large, luminescent purplish-azure orbs, strikingly dramatic contrasted against the pale ashen pallor of his countenance. A trickle of crimson lingered at the corner of his too-red mouth, surrounding his wraith-like figure with an ethereal, macabre aura unsuited for his mere six years of age.

"Look at me when I speak to you!" The man's tone had changed from one of gentle coaxing to a harsh, sharp bark, piercing into the child's soul with an agony far worse than any he had ever experienced, a hurt throbbing relentlessly in his heart akin to some vengeful spectre, threatening to swallow him up completely.

_All I want…is for otousan to love me…is it really that hard…?_

Trembling violently, futilely attempting to keep the tears hidden under his mask of cold aloofness, Kuja drew every remaining effort in his broken and battered body and lifted his head slightly, unspoken terror written in his implacable stare. 

"Get over here." Those words, simple yet cruel, gnawed into his psyche, jolting him with the frightening, real prospect of what he knew was going to happen next. Yet, what choice had he but to obey? The three words, murmured in a quiet undertone, belied its true meaning of demanding, demeaning satisfaction, strung maliciously together to form a command which would unleash a torrent of callous torment unto his vulnerable mind and physique. 

Clutching his grubby stuffed dragon close to his chest, he shuffled slowly forward, eyes lowered to the ground in trepidation. He wanted to get this – this filthy deed over and done with, so he could once more retreat to his sanctuary, his personal haven at the corner of the gloomy, baleful attic, where he would be chained up again like a wild beast and left alone with only the malevolent shadows lurking in sinister menace at every nook and cranny for solace, left alone to his own devices, to retreat into his reverie of a fantasy world, a world of ultimate bliss and joy, a world where suffering was a stranger.

Till then…

A licentious, wide smirk twisted the man's lips into a demonic grin. Chuckling with immoral craving, he pulled the boy's tear-streaked face down to his own and kissed him roughly, selfishly uncaring towards the boy's obvious discomfort.

"Otousa--"

"Shut up!" The man released the boy from his rigid, powerful grasp and pushed him brutally onto the bed. 

"You will do what I tell you to-- " In a vehement, forceful gesture, he gripped his son's visage and lifted it viciously to level with his own. 

"Or you'll get it from me. Understand?"

Kuja remained silent, gazing serenely, placidly at his father, not uttering a sound, his eyes lagoons of tranquil cobalt.

There was no need for an answer.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The moon hung high in the sable sky, reminiscent of a crescent-shaped scimitar suspended against a woven tapestry of the deepest, richest black. A ray of moonlight spilled into the dimly-lit room, illuminating it with a silver, surrealistic glow.

## He had returned at last, stepped into this prison of painful memories for the first time in twenty years. And still the ordeal of the past haunted him like an agitated, distressed ghost, undeniably bent on obliterating him once again, tearing aside the stolid mask of impassive detachment he wore, breaking down the protective walls of concrete he had built around his frail self over the passage of time, shattering him into an infinite irreparable pieces.

A slight smile brightened his dull eyes, bringing life into them for a fleeting moment before dying out. Staring at the flickering orange flames, dancing passionately on their stage of raven mystery, throwing tinted monochrome images onto the yellowing, cracked walls, distorted and grotesque; he revelled in their quiet magnificence.

Emotions, in addition to paltry, insincere affections, he had no use for. An icy heart, stained a cold sapphire and fettered by the shackles of naive culpability, would never recognize this bizarre, alien entity dubbed 'sentiments'. The word rolled around on his tongue, a foreign and unsolicited object he did not wish to distinguish.

The young man sighed as softly as the autumn zephyr rustles through the trees, conveying a message of hope and despair, of tragedy and joy, of sorrow and pleasure. 

Long ago, in a time even beyond his reminiscence, he had taken a leap at faith, and plummeted to the ground, bound to eternal damnation in a swirling abyss of desolate inhumanity, an angel of death fallen from heavenly grace, his chaste belief in morality adulterated and disfigured.

His mind was set. Retribution was the most just way to punish those who had dealt him an unfair life. Instead of living in the cursed shadow of someone else, he would dominate. Instead of being ruled, he would rule. Instead of being dictated to, he would dictate. 

This life, this soul, this delicate outer shell of a body, it was all his. Nobody else could claim and brand him as their possession. 

One day, he would perform on his own arena of life as the firelight did, presenting to a captivated audience the story of a man who instilled dread and struck fear into the hearts of humble denizens under his control, the story of one who was respected and esteemed, someone whose name would go down in Terra's history as the greatest monarch ever. He would be the director, the actor with his head of glorious silver tresses proudly held high, striding out from behind heavily-tassled curtains to a stream of thunderous applause.

One day, he would be everything he aspired to be.

One day.

Someday.

= owari =

Firstly, the legal blabber: Kuja is property of Squaresoft and whoever created him. Drats. ^^

Anyway, this is hopelessly cheesy. I know. But… constructive comments are appreciated. ^^ Thank ye~ 

-kaoru c.-

   [1]: mailto:kamimura_ukyo@yahoo.com.sg



End file.
